Used to Love Her
Another fucking stone, rock, boulder!
Derek Hawkins pulled the green steel shovel out of the soil in his back garden and re-emerged it at another point. If any of the neighbours happened to look out of their windows right now, they'll think you're crazy old boy.
Derek really needn't have worried. Firstly, his garden was enclosed by an eight foot tall wall of bushes and climbing plants Christy had planted and erected to add some privacy. Secondly, Derek was the only person in the neighbourhood awake at one-thirty in the morning.
Both of his hands were blistered on the palm where the fingers joined the hand, and he knew he's have to pop them, but not yet. If they were popped now, the hands would hurt too much to continue digging. And dig, by Christ, was what he needed to do.
Originally Derek had figured he'd dig six to eight feet deep, maybe a foot to eighteen inches across, and dump the duffel bag in, then fill it up. Maybe even put a potted plant over it, Christy would like that.
Sweat mixed with soil and dirt, and ran down his chest, smudging across his face as he wiped the beads away with the back of his hand and forearm. The hole looking up at him from the side of his garden was maybe three feet deep and at most 8 inches across. ‘Fuck’ Derek said to himself, ‘it’s going to have to be bigger’.
The green steel shovel sliced into the soil once more, crushing through the earth beneath it.
Derek’s yellow-brown dirt covered face was in stark contrast with the wide, blood-shot eyes. His dark hair was stuck to soaked brow, sweat weeping out of every pore on his body. A cold shiver would occasionally, facing Derek to wonder if it was the change in body temperature or the guilt.
‘Couldn’t be guilt. Couldn’t be’ Derek repeated to himself as he heaved another shovel-full of dirt out of the slowly growing hole. ‘I was perfectly within my rights as a husband to do what I did. I’ve nothing to feel guilty of’. Then why are you doing this?, a voice inside questioned.
Turning slowly toward the black duffel bag, Derek knew what he’d see. There it would be, large as life, and thoroughly unpleased, with a questioning look. His head lowered and turned into chest before Derek turned at the waist to look at the bag. It was still zipped up, still.
‘Don’t you look at me like that’ Derek proclaimed to the bag. ‘You knew it was coming to this’. With that Derek, dropped to his knees in front of the bag, a single tear ran down his left cheek.
‘I didn’t want to, you do know that, don’t you? Don’t you? It’s just sometimes…you make me so mad! If I come home and have a beer and don’t use a coaster, who gives a fuck? A warm, damp cloth’ll get rid of a ring mark, for Christ’s sake’.
Derek pinched the zip between his index finger and thumb of his right hand, gripped the bag with a balled left fist, and opened the duffel bag up. ‘There you are’ Derek said into the bag. ‘I still can’t believe how blessed my life’s been to have you’ Derek continued as he reached both of his blistered hands into the mouth with a billion zipper teeth, and pulled out a turning-green head.
Christy’s turning-green head.
The tongue was purple and swollen and hung down from the mouth like a grotesque tie, the eyes had rolled back into the head, and the once red hair was now matted together with a gel of congealed blood.
‘You always were the best looking girl in school’ Derek told his wife’s head. He kissed the ice-cold green flesh of the forehead, and placed it back into the bag, before adding, ‘It’ll all be over soon, sweetie, don’t worry. All be over soon.’
The shovel penetrated the ground once more and once again struck a stone, sending the reverberations up the shovels handle and causing Derek to feel, if not quite pain then sever discomfort. His watch said the time was 3:15 am, and the hole was still a long way off from the dimensions Derek had planned.
Picking up the bag, Derek paused for breath, and reflection on the events leading up to this point in his life. ‘Now, honey’ he said to the side of the bag. ‘You know why I’m doing this, don’t you? Good.’ The he dropped the bag into the hole as though dropping a bag of crap into a skip.
It took only twenty minutes to fill in the hole with the soil (although Derek had to dig some up from around the garden, there’s never enough dirt to fill the hole you’ve just dug), a stark contrast to the hours it had taken to dig the damn thing. Derek snapped the top off a bottle of beer, and drank down the cool, bubbly liquid as he stood looking down at the slightly rectangular shape of grey-brown dirt by the wall of his garden. Weren’t you going to plant something over it?, a voice in his head queried. Shit! Derek answered himself, if anyone asks I’ll say I found a dead bird and decided to bury it. Fucking big bird, the voice echoed in his mind.
Derek bent down on one knee (was it the same knee he’d bent down on to ask for Christy’s hand in marriage seventeen months ago?) and ran a hand over the freshly turned earth. ‘Now you stay here’ he whispered to Christy’s green flesh now several feet beneath him, ‘And think about what you’ve done.’
Once he’d entered the kitchen Derek took off his dirty boots and then walked over the rustling carpet of newspaper that covered the floor. The tiles had been white and black, but now the surface under foot was running ink, crinkled paper and drying blood. ‘Better leave the window open’ he told himself sniffing in a whiff of blood. ‘Smells like a butcher’s shop’. He allowed himself a short, shallow laugh before raiding the fridge for another beer.
The whole episode, the whole sorry, bloody incident had started last night at roughly nine-thirty. Well, if you wanted to be pedantic about it, the whole saga began seventeen months ago when high school sweethearts left college and got hitched.
About two weeks into the marriage, the ravenous sex stopped and the nagging started. The hand jobs in the back of the cinema ceased and the complaining commenced. The blowjobs while driving finished and the bitching began.
So, last night, after refusing sex and waffling on and on and on and on for a small eternity about using those annoying fucking useless coasters, Derek decided enough was enough. He picked up Christy’s prized, treasured porcelain Elvis statue and smashed her in the head with it. Only, the feel was wrong in Derek’s hand. It wasn’t porcelain at all, but had a metallic feel to it. Elvis’ quiff was much smoother and rounded. When Derek looked down at the object held in his right hand he saw not the posing Elvis statue but rather a heavy, steel nine inch dildo.
A dildo? I’ve been suppressing my natural urges, and this bitch has a stainless steel Randy Ron! Fucker!
Christy was starting to stir, still very groggy, and so Derek helped her along. The second smash brought Christy spiralling downwards, draping her barely still breathing body over the foot of the bed. Chips of skull flew out over the room, spiralling in orbit, being chased down by thick ropes of blood and tiny fragments of brain matter. The Randy Ron remained intact.
Her body was slumped face-down on the bed, letting out an involuntary groan as it landed. Was she dead? Derek asked himself silently. No, not yet, but she’s getting closer. She’ll start to get cold soon enough, so you’d better be quick about it, the voice in his head told him. ‘Yes’ he replied.
Derek gently lifted up Christy’s skirt, and ripped her French knickers apart. He positioned his hands on her hips, and gently, with a lover’s caress, slid them forward until they were on her pubic bone, then he pulled her body onto him. He entered her in one thrust-pull motion. He entered her anally.
By the time Derek had finished sodomising his wife, her body was cooling and the pulse had stopped. ‘You mean I did her to death?’ he asked in a whisper, amazed at his own virility. That’s right, the voice in his head informed him, to death…and beyond.
‘Fuck…’ he said out loud with a slight chuckle, ‘this’ll make one helluva bar story.’
He stripped his dead wife’s body naked, and dragged it by the ankles across the bedroom, along the landing and then down the stairs. As her head bounced down each individual stair, Derek noticed how her breasts jiggled with each step. Once they reached the bottom of the stair case, Derek began searching his pockets for a condom. No need for one of those now, numb nuts, the voice inside his brain told him.
Pulling his white Y-front briefs down to allow his stubby erection some breathing air, Derek kneeled down between his lover’s legs, finding it difficult to get them to stay in the position he wanted them in. finally giving up on any ideas of aesthetics, he plunged forward (a child-like war cry of ’Charge!’ rang out in his mind) and started moving his pelvis back and forth, over and over, before eventually coming into his dead wife’s cold vagina.
‘Well’ he said pulling out and dribbling on the stairs’ carpet, ‘it was almost as lively as the last time we had sex facing each other.’ Derek laughed the laugh of the insane, feeling his shirt pockets for a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, before remembering that Chesty had made him give them up. ‘Tomorrow, first thing tomorrow, I’m going over to Harry’s and I’m buying three lighters and enough cigs to use them all up. All three lighters, I’m going to smoke through tomorrow.’
Derek spent a good half an hour laying the papers from the Times out over their kitchen, well, his kitchen floor now, making sure to tape them down so they didn’t accidentally curl up. Next was to lay out a collection of knives out on the counter. There was an axe somewhere, but damned if he could remember where it was now. He contemplated searching for it, but decided time was not on his side right now, and forgot about it altogether.
By the time Derek had dragged Christy’s body, which was now really nothing more than a fleshy mannequin with working orifices, into the kitchen and laid it out on the newspaper, his old, little friend was back.
‘If I make it quick’ he said to himself excitedly, ‘I can fit it in’.
Tilting Christy’s head back and opening the mouth, just as though he was going to administer a very futile case of CPR, Derek unzipped and slid his flaccid-again penis in between the soft, moist lips.
Derek exclaimed his concern over catching his dick on her teeth, as he had just done. Oh well, no real problem.
The pliers were old, with orange plastic covering the handles. The metal gripping teeth were now rusted a peculiar orange-brown, and Derek did hope Christy didn’t catch tinnitus, before allowing himself yet another madman laugh, this time a much deeper, from-the-pit-of-your-belly type laugh.
After figuring out what level of force to use, the majority of the teeth came out fairly easily, leaving the mouth itself awash with blood. Some teeth broke off half way down, and Derek had to grip the pliers like a knife in both hands and stab and hack at the teeth still stuck in the gums, protruding like blood-rinsed tombstones, to knock them loose. Once the mouth was tooth-free, Derek slipped his half-erect penis in, and pushed the jaw closed. As he moved up and down, the rubbing motion against the still-warm blood-coated gums made him fully hard. Even though it was his third time in a short period, he only lasted what felt like a matter of seconds.
Alarm, horror, fright, panic was what Derek was overcome by when he pulled his penis out of Christy’s toothless smile and saw the blood all over his favourite organ, before remembering the blood wasn’t his. He squeezed the blood off his dick and inadvertently shot out an extra millilitre of ‘man gunk’ as Christy called it I a somewhat immature manner, right up his dead wife’s nostril.
At this, Derek laughed uncontrollably, almost choking himself in the process.
Three hours later, and Derek found himself loading pieces of Christy’s chopped up body into a black duffel bag, ready to take it out into the back garden along with a brand new, never-before-used green steel shovel.
Now, Derek is sat on his couch in the living room, watching one of those televised sex-call channels, pulling off with his wedding photo ready to catch the truth about to spill out.